VIMY
by EmiliaMartakis
Summary: Historical! WWI!Canada. Experience the crucial Battle of Vimy Ridge through the eyes of 1st Canadian Division soldier Matthew Williams.
1. Chapter 1

**VIMY**

**April 9****th****, 1917**

**Easter Monday**

Breathing. In and out. The sky is dark. It's early morning. Matthew keeps his eyes on his boots and adjusts his grip on his Lee Enfield rifle. It's cold. Matthew finds

himself focusing on these trivial things, anything, that might help him keep his sanity in these moments of waking. His throat burns, the effects of the chlorine gas

slowly fading. His skin itches from the lice and flees that plague him and his troops. His feet are nearly numb, hours and hours of living in the muddy trenches taking

effect. He tilts his helmet forward, the brim covering his tired, haunted blue eyes, and burrows himself farther into the nook in the trench's wall. He hears the rattle as

the ammunition is loaded into the Vickers machine gun, the steady clicking of the cocks on rifles around him, the muffled sound of voices, tears, laughter. The morning

after Easter. All is ready. This has been planned for months, for over a year. It should have been yesterday. But the French have failed twice trying to reclaim this piece

of land. Who says that he can do it?

Breathing. In and out. Only a few more moments now. The barrage starts at five-thirty. It's cold outside. Matthew shivers in his uniform. He's not the only one. He

wonders about the weather, the condition of the troops, says a few prayers, anything to stop this unbearable silence, this agonizing period. Almost. It's nearly time. He

runs his fingers along the barrel of his Lee Enfield rifle. Breathing. In and out. And then- the sound. The sound of hell. The sound of the artillery firing. Every last gun.

Moments later, another noise. The landmines. Primed by the engineers under No Man's Land and the German trenches, they detonate. Matthew stands up, tired and

sore, along with the other soldiers in 1st Canadian Division, 2nd, and 3rd. They climb over the trench wall, and it begins. Running, ducking, tripping over a dead man.

Matthew climbs over the barbed wire that snakes across the bleak terrain. His fellow soldiers do the same, some before him, some after. The man in front of him falls, a

strangled scream tearing its way through his throat. Blood spurts onto Matthew. He keeps moving. The objective. He must not stop.

Breathing. In and out. His canteen bangs against his leg steadily with each step. He ducks behind a tank, seeking the momentary cover. Shots ring out overhead, lights

flashing, explosions occurring mere metres from him. Soldiers streak across the field, falling to the ground, either shot or shooting. His small box respirator bangs

against his canteen. Breathing. In and out. Explosions rock the ground. His hair sticks to his neck with sweat. The barrages continue from the Allied side. The objective.

He cocks his rifle, loads the ammunition, his hands working by themselves. His puttees stick to his legs and boots. The sleeves of his khaki uniform are stained red-

from what? The Black Line. It looked so different on a drawing board. He aims, he fires. He reloads. He darts his head out from behind the tank- his division has started

to move again. The sound of the guns is deafening. The smell of metal and the tang of blood is nauseating. He crouches, moving low to the ground. In front of him,

another explosion. Below him, the mud, trenches, and barbed wire of No Man's Land. The torn limbs and empty cartridges. The shrapnel, dyed red with blood of No

Man's Land. Above him, the sky begins to weep, chilling him. The cold sleets soaks through the back of his uniform.

Breathing. In and out. He advances, picking his way across barbed wire, the dead and the wounded. Almost there. The Canadians continue to fire from the trenches,

creating for his soldiers a bloody pathway to the German trenches. He sees the face of a shouting gunman. He aims, he fires. The German's face is relaxed in death.

Almost. The other Canadian soldiers fall to the ground as a new man takes the fallen's place, feeding the machine gun a round of ammunition. Matthew mimics their

motion, dropping to the muddy, ruined soil to avoid being shot. The rain picks up in speed, blowing into the faces of the enemy. Large, fat drops roll down the side of

his British trench helmet, dripping into his eyes. But there is no opportunity to do anything about that. Shots ring out above his head, and he grips his rifle to himself

tighter. Losing it is losing his life. The Canadians fire a steady stream into the trenches. Matthew rises, along with the others, and they advance again.

Breathing. In and out. What would his family say if they could see him now? Would his father be proud of him? Would his mother cry? Matthew ducks, reloads, aims,

and fires. A simple process, repeated thousands of times. An explosion occurs in the nearest trench, heralding the first step towards their victory. The earth rumbles.

The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Canadian Divisions head forward, seizing the German trenches. Matthew slides down into one, slipping his bayonet onto his precious Lee Enfield.

Another German, another angry man. His uniformed chest blossoms into a crimson smile as Matthew strikes. A new man replaces him, gripping a pistol- a rarity in the

trenches- and wielding a dagger. The man fires. The bullet wizzes by Matthew's head. It is not a revolver. He takes his rifle, he fires, he stabs. Another falls. Matthew's

lips curl into a sneer. This is not hard enough. The Jerries are weak. His head feels light, his system buzzing with adrenaline from the kills. Another German attacks him,

this time using a rifle with a bayonet as well. He charges the man within the narrow confines of the trench, their boots sinking into the ground, muddy from the

continuous rain and lack of drainage. The man, startled by the onslaught, sticks out his rifle to defend himself. The tip of the bayonet slices across Matthew's cheek.

Matthew stabs him, pulls out his bayonet, dripping with blood from the man's chest, wipes it on the dead German's uniform . He runs a hand over his own cut cheek;

his fingers come back red. But he feels no pain from the wound. His adrenaline is too strong.

Breathing. In and out. Faster and faster. It's still early morning. The three Canadian Divisions have been successful in their campaign. Matthew can't see the 4th

Canadian Division. They have taken the Black Line. The barrage is going as planned. But there is no time to celebrate. "Onward!" comes the call; with a rising sense of

glory, Matthew answers it. He climbs his way to the top of the trench, surrounded by his countrymen. The next German trench is visible. Matthew feels around on his

belt with his free hand, his Lee Enfield slung across his back, gripping onto the German ladder made slippery by the continuing, chilling rain. His hand seizes the

grenade- pulling the pin out with his teeth, he has just enough time to launch it at the trench. The sound of its detonation joins the chorus of explosions. The Black

Line is won, now the Red, now the Red. 1st Canadian Division makes their way out of the trench and crawls over No Man's Land as the increasingly-desperate

Germans fire. They're making way, making way for the 1st Canadian Brigade to take the Line. They advance, picking up speed and momentum, slowing down and

nearly stopping completely to avoid enemy gunfire. The endless cycle. Sleet pounds them and the Germans. Cold and wet. It's miserable, the day's conditions even

worse than usual. His heart beats erratically, wildly, adrenaline courses through his veins. They take the Line, the left side, so the Brigade can finish them off. It's just

after seven in the morning.

* * *

><p><em>Hello, everyone. As some of you may know, I had published this story previously, but took it down due to errors. I apologize for any inconveniences. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews on the previous version, they really made my day :) Please give me your feedback on this story! I'd love to know what you think, along with any possible ideas for edits. Thanks! <em>

_As said in the old note, this story was inspired by the Great War exhibit at the Canadian Museum of War in Ottawa, Canada._


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday, April 10th, 1917**

Breathing. In and out. Matthew tilts his head back and leans against the trench wall, his arms curled around his knees. Unable to sleep. It's cold, as cold as the day

before, though no rain yet. He shivers, tightens his arms. He unfurls himself and takes a drink from his canteen. He can't waste a drop. This is all he has for the

moment. Soldiers lie in the holes in the wall of the trench, a few take the bunker. It's a coveted position. The only spot that has remote cover. Matthew stares down at

the muddy trench, his muddy boots. He can't feel his feet. His partner, the soldier responsible for monitoring his health and Matthew his, was killed yesterday. Killed,

killing. There's no difference. Sometimes Matthew feels that the dead are the lucky ones. They don't have to live through this hell any longer.

Breathing. In and out. Matthew stares at the bloodstained trench wall beside him. He thinks of the Germans he's killed. He thinks of their homes, their families, their

lives that he has ruined. Not that they wouldn't have done the same for him. He thinks of his own family in Canada, in Ontario. He thinks of Ottawa. He thinks of the

War. He thinks of his own demise. What will his family do without him? He's still young, under twenty- he lied about his age when he signed up- and he must carry on

the family business once his father has gone. He's their only son. The mutterings of the soldiers draw him back to the moment. He looks up briefly. The sky is still dark.

A cold, nervous sweat begins to cover his brow. Yesterday, yesterday seemed like a dream. Or a nightmare. Now here he is, his division is, about to attack again.

Matthew swallows nervously.

Breathing. In and out. It's agony. The rattle of ammunition, the clicking of rifles, the grunts of soldiers as they move the heavy guns or treat their wounds. The German

trench is unfamiliar to them. He wishes for the SRD rum rations, not unlike any of the others. Liquid courage. Only a few more minutes until the attack begins. Yesterday

was successful, but what about today? They took the Black Line, they took the Red Line. Now, today it's Blue. The Blue Line. The 1st and 2nd Canadian Divisions. How

many will be lost? Matthew looks down at his hands. Rough with callouses from work and sloppily wrapped to prevent frostbite. He looks up at the morning sky. It's still

dark. The ever-present, ominous threat of a snowstorm, of hail, remains. His skin crawls from nerves and pests alike. His head itches from lice, though his hair is mostly

shorn, kept under his trench helmet. The butt of his rifle digs into his hip, slung over his shoulder.

Breathing. In and out. Matthew waits for the whistle that signals the new attack with a growing sense of dread. He looks down, he looks up. His Lee Enfield is loaded.

He's ready for the attack. He exhales, his breath a frozen cloud. Easter. They did not even get to celebrate, not in the trenches. Not the day before 3such an attack. His

Catholic family would be disappointed. His family, his family. When was the last time that he wrote to them? He could be dead this very morning. The telegram was a

awful thing to receive. And without any word from him for a year. Joining without their permission, he was cruel. Cruel to his family, cruel to the enemy, cruel to himself.

Breathing. In and out. Almost time now. The soldiers in 1st and 2nd Canadian Divisions awaited the whistle, the arrival of the promised reinforcements that the officers

had scant time to mention. The British brigades should arrive soon. The British. Now his family had served in two of their wars. His father in the Boer, now himself in the

Great War. Home by Christmas, the local recruiter had said. You'll see your families in a short while. The war is a time for glory and adventure. Matthew, like any young

man, believed himself to become a hero, to save the Cause, the ever-growing amount of propaganda inflating his sense of self-worth and dignity. What a lie. Stuck in

the trenches, preparing for the next attack, Matthew had not saved anyone, all gallantry and kindness and nobility gone as the shots flew in battle. His only thought

was himself. And the objective, always the objective. Now the Blue Line. But he was no eager soldier, no hero. He wanted to get out of this war alive.

Breathing. In and out. A nervous flutter in his chest. He grips his rifle, drinks from his canteen, lets it fall back to his belt. Tries to wiggle his toes. No feeling left in his

feet. Adjusts his helmet, scratches his arm. Anything, anything at all. The whistle, the whistle. Waiting is agony. He waits for the shrill sound that leads to victory or

death. What are they waiting for, there's no time for this, when will the blow the whistle, sound the march? Matthew's eyes flick around the trench. Waiting, everyone

is waiting. Praying, a few. Matthew cannot find the words, the intentions, the will to pray anymore. What good has Jesus been to him on a battlefield? Waiting, back to

waiting.

Breathing. In and out. The high sound of the whistle finally blowing penetrates his skull, leads him up of the ground and out of the trench, surrounded by his fellow

troops. He leaps over the ruined barbed wire. No bodies to trip over now. The dead have been collected the night before. He keeps low to the ground, stops, rolls,

aims, fires, stand, runs. Advancing and retreating, slowly, barely. The troops make their way across No Man's Land, going towards the objective. Which line? Matthew

can hardly remember. Red, yellow, blue, green, nothing makes sense, no difference. Colors are a poor analogy for war. The Germans have roused themselves, found

reinforcements. They fire away. Matthew runs ahead. An explosion occurs mere feet from him, throwing him into the air. He flies, weightless from the force of the bomb,

is thrown to the ground. Sore all over. Shrapnel ricochets off of his helmet, tears his uniform. Pain and blood from the wounds. He must get up, he must advance. Or

else he's finished. War is no place for cowards. Although he is.

Breathing. In and out. Air rattles in his throat. He pushes himself up, grimaces in pain as weight is put on his left arm. No, no, not now. He can't afford a broken limb

now. He cradles his wounded arm to his chest, then drops back to the ground as the German machine guns fire up. Men drop like flies around him. A soldier falls on top

of him, his head lolling and blood pouring from numerous wounds. Blood drips onto Matthew. He pushes the dead man off of him, struggles to get up. The British,

where are the British? The morning, they said. Artillery flies over his head, explosions rock the ground. Landmines explode, covering the troops, the dead, covering

Matthew with bloody earth, tearing up the barbed wire, sending shrapnel flying. If he can't get back to the trench he's dead. Even more so than before. His arm pains

him, his chest and limbs sting, his feet remain numb, his head pounds. Too much, it's all too much. He leans over and vomits into the earth.

Breathing. In and out. Barely holding onto his sanity and life. Matthew must make it back. Forward. Which is the better option? Both lead to almost certain death. Shots

ring out around him, he can't reload his rifle, he's a dead man. His injuries won't be fatal, can't be fatal. He must make it back. It's easier to die, so much easier to die.

All he has to do is lay back down, wait for the next bomb, or stand up fully, let the machine gun get him. But he can't go back, he can't go forward. Onward, forward,

advancing with his troops. The objective, he can't forget the objective. But what can he do, wounded and unable to reload? Matthew grits his teeth and slowly rises,

kicking the dead soldier out of his way. There is no time to pay your respects in battle. He makes his way slowly over No Man's Land, following his troops to the Blue

Line. It's still morning. Another day of sleet and bone-chilling cold. His puttees and uniform are soaked and muddied from dropping so many times to avoid being shot,

his arm feels shattered. He wishes that it was over, it was all over, that he was back in his father's shop in Canada. What a fool he was, signing up at fifteen. No one

that young makes it back. Eighteen now.

Breathing. In and out. Faster and faster. His movements accelerate from a growing sense of hysteria and adrenaline. He can make it! A soldier runs past him, the

insignia on his uniform bearing the diamond of a 2nd lieutenant. Matthew blinks. The soldier falls as a new wave of gunners take control from the trenches. Matthew

drops beside the fallen lieutenant. A Brit. They've arrived. They can still beat Old Fritz. The reinforcements have arrived. He feels almost giddy with relief. Now the Blue

Line can definitely be taken, German reinforcements or not. The 1st and 2nd Canadian Divisions continue the onslaught of the trenches, British tanks firing behind

them. Matthew makes his way to the trenches, following in the wake of a tank. A thousand days have passed. It's still morning.

Breathing. In and out. Wheezing from running and pain. He can make it. After the Blue Line, to the Brown. Capturing towns and villages nearby. Nearly ruins, all of

them. After the Brown, to the final objective. Matthew can last through it all. He's strong, he can endure. He knows he can. After this, he may be able to go home. That

gives him the push he needs. He runs faster, adrenaline pumping through his system. Ignoring the pain in his arm and all over his body, he drops, he reloads, aims and

fires. So close now. The German snipers are in close range. He could fall any moment. Cork helmets may not withstand the bullet. The Canadian and British forces

combine and surge onward, dropping into the German trenches. Matthew runs after them, his wounded arm swinging, and slides down into the trench. He grabs his

Lee Enfield, already reloaded, and aims, taking down another angry German. The man's helmet flies off, revealing almost-neat blond hair now matted with blond, his

blue eyes going wide at Matthew's neat bullet to the head. He falls, yet another death, as Matthew ducks into the German bunker, firing at random into the mass of

fleeing soldiers. By eleven in the morning, the Blue Line has been captured, along with Hill 135 and the town of Thélus.


End file.
